American Shaman

An Odyssey of Global Healing Traditions

Jeffrey A. Kottler, Jon Carlson, Bradford Keeney

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2004
• ISBN:
  9781134000593
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Psychology
• Subtopic: Psychotherapy Counselling
• Index: Psychology

Written for therapists, scholars, clergy, students, and those with an interest in non-traditional healing practices, this book tells the story of Bradford Keeney, the first non-African to be inducted as a shaman in the Kung Bushman and Zulu cultures.

Part I
Some Conceptual Foundations

Chapter One
The Zulu Conflict

“Hello?”

“Jon?”

“Yeah. This is Jon Carlson.”

“Jon. This is Mev.”

“Mev?”

“Brad’s wife.”

“Oh, Mev. Hi. I’m looking forward to seeing Brad in a few weeks. But I’ve been concerned because I haven’t heard anything from him confirming our appointment.”

Jon Carlson was sitting in his office, catching up on case notes before his next appointment. It was a Wednesday, a busy day for seeing clients, nine of them lined up, one after the other. When the phone rang, he was just getting ready to greet the next person waiting.

“Yeah, about that,” Mev said in a strange voice that immediately got Jon’s attention. “That’s why I’m calling.”

“Is everything alright?” Jon asked, suddenly alarmed. “Is Brad okay?”

“Well, I’m not really sure, actually. I got a call from him earlier today. Or rather, it was tomorrow over there.”

“Huh?” Jon said, even more confused.

“Sorry,” Mev answered him in an apologetic voice. “He’s over in Africa now, and I guess it’s tomorrow there already.”

“I see,” Jon said, without at all seeing where this was going. He realized that Brad Keeney was in Africa doing some sort of research on ancient rock art, or shamanic rituals, or some such thing. So why was Brad’s wife calling to tell him this?

“There’s been some sort of problem with the Zulus,” Mev explained.

“A problem with the Zulus?” Jon could not imagine what this might involve. Was there some war going on between the tribes? And what was Brad doing in the middle of it?

“Well, anyway, he’s in the middle of something that he can’t get out of. He was supposed to be home next week, in time to make your video. But now he doesn’t know when he’ll be back.”

“Let me get this straight,” Jon said, trying to restrain a laugh because this story sounded so strange. “You’re saying there is some kind of Zulu conflict, and Brad is in the middle of it.”

“I think there’s a misunderstanding between some people over there. In addition, an elder Zulu he knows, a witchdoctor, is on his deathbed or in some kind of trouble, and wants to see Brad before he dies. I’m really worried. But he called—it was a terrible connection— and all he said is that he wouldn’t be home for awhile.”

A Dream, a Message, and a Gift

Keeney had gone to Africa to meet with his old friend Vusamazulu Credo Mutwa, one of the most revered medicine men in the world. He was the author of several renowned and widely circulated books about African tribal history and legends (Mutwa, 1964, 1971, 1986) and also the grandson of a high Zulu witchdoctor who had been the custodian of Zulu traditions. Credo Mutwa was considered to be one of the spiritual leaders of all healers and a beacon to much of Africa. He had also been the subject of numerous assassination plots by members of other tribes who considered him a threat.

Credo Mutwa was an old man in very poor health, diagnosed with a multitude of circulatory and respiratory diseases that were common in Africa. He was a huge, imposing figure outfitted in layers of multicolored fabrics, a bright red cape, and a large staff topped with an ornamental bird. His large, round belly protruded from underneath dangling necklaces. He wore thick glasses, from which he briefly stared intently at anyone he faced. He believed these were the last days of his life, and he was at a point where he was waiting for death to take him. He had known Keeney for many years and was waiting to see him.

Nearly a decade earlier, Keeney had traveled to Mutwa’s village in Mafikeng and announced, “I have come to you because of a dream. I bring you a sacred gift. And a message.”

Mutwa slowly held out his hand for Keeney to shake and studied him carefully. “I know of you,” Mutwa said simply.

“The spirits have brought me to Africa,” Keeney continued. “I have found a spiritual home with the Bushmen and I am honored that they have adopted me as one of their spokespersons.”

The old man nodded gravely, still studying the stranger intently. “My mother’s father was a Bushman. I am a descendent of the people.”

Keeney replied, “I just came from the Kalahari and I was with the people. I came to Africa with two pipes that had been given to me by strong medicine men in my own country, friends with whom I work. They are of the tribe called Ojibwa.” He pronounced the word slowly and watched Mutwa form it on his own lips. It struck Keeney as incredible at the time that here he was, the conduit between two powerful healers in the world, each from a different continent.

“I was confused until this moment,” Keeney said, “because I brought this pipe for you as a gift of the Indian people of my own country. But in my dream I was told to give it only to a Bushman. Now I see that you are not only a great Zulu but also a Bushman.” He slowly extended both hands with the peace pipe held between them.

As Mutwa reached for the sacred gift, he winced in pain. He took the pipe and examined it, nodding to himself. “I have a gift for you as well,” he said gesturing to a necklace made of wooden beads. “This is a very special thing. It is made from sacred wood that has been burned while a prayer has been said to the Big God. It is only to be worn by a sangoma, a healer such as yourself.”

Mutwa’s wife, who had watched the proceedings with some trepidation, approached the tall White bearded stranger with long hair holding the sacred wooden beads. Keeney had to bend over like a knight in order to receive the necklace around his neck.

Vusamazulu Credo Mutwa, Zulu healer, wearing the ceremonial blood necklace.

“With this sacred thing, made from the wood of the Protector, you are recognized as a sangoma of our people. I will share the Zulu sacred knowledge with you and you will also carry our truths.” With this last statement, Mutwa smiled for the first time.

“I am truly honored, Credo Mutwa, but I see you are in great pain. I feel the pain in my lungs.”

“You must touch me then,” Mutwa directed Keeney, requesting, in effect, that Brad use his healing powers to relieve him of his suffering. After many years of a hard life, both physically demanding and politically treacherous, the great spiritual leader of Africa was both depressed and discouraged. In spite of all his efforts, he had failed to unite his people. He was still considered an enemy by old members of the South African police and several foreign powers. And now he was waiting to die a very painful death.

Keeney watched Mutwa slowly stand, with the help of his wife and another villager. It seemed to take several minutes for him to rise and then rearrange himself in proper form. Keeney reached out and took the old man’s hand between his own. He pressed both hands against Mutwa’s chest, the place where he sensed the most pain deep in Mutwa’s lungs. While they stood close in this position, Keeney could feel his own body begin to shake and vibrate, an undulating series of movements that seemed to move from one limb to another and then centered deep in his belly. As they held one another and shook, Keeney began to chant and improvise songs that were inspired by his relationships with other healing traditions. The songs were directed toward Mutwa’s pains, inviting them to come out.

By this time, others from the area had come to watch this strange proceeding—they didn’t know what to make of this big long-haired man who was singing and shaking with their spiritual leader.

It might have been only minutes, but it felt to Keeney like hours before the shaking stopped. Mutwa looked up at Keeney, who was taller than he, and nodded his head.

“I have had a dream about this meeting,” Mutwa said, “but it is also a dream of four winds that come together from different directions.”

“Yes,” Keeney replied, “this is my mission and my life, to help bring together the healing practices of many people.”

Mutwa smiled warmly again, then turned very serious. “I must tell you something. I do not have long to live . . . even with your help.” He smiled gratefully as he said this, for he was indeed now briefly free of pain. “It will soon be time for others like you to carry on the walk. There is much to do and many forces that block our way.” Mutwa was a tired, dispirited man who was exhausted from doing battle with the South African police, the jealous African leaders, the governments of neighboring countries, and even the United States government, which consistently sided with authorities against his people. He spoke of his frustrations with the supposed advances of modern medicine that had no respect for the old ways. He talked about his sadness over racial tensions, the corruption of African officials, and the spread of diseases like HIV.

All throughout the day and well into the evening, Mutwa and Keeney talked of their missions and their work. They shared beliefs about their healing methods and how they worked. They exchanged ideas about the world around them and what must be done to help the people. And before the day ended, they had become fast friends.

So, this was how Brad Keeney found himself as the consigliore, the spiritual adviser, and the shaman to the most powerful shaman in Africa. And because of events that were about to un- fold, Keeney would end up smack in the middle of some of the latest South African conflicts that were waged, not with spears, but with automatic weapons.

Dangerous Journey

It was clear to Keeney that Credo Mutwa needed spiritual help for this last stage of his life, more than could be provided by his own powers. During their next talk, he revisited an earlier discussion.

“I remember a story you told me,” Keeney said, getting right to the point, rather than continuing their discussions of political unrest in the country.

“Yes,” Mutwa said, nodding his head gravely.

“It was a story of your own teacher, the woman who initiated you into this world.”

“That was Mynah. My aunt. She was the last surviving daughter of Dingane, the Zulu king. She became a mulozi, one who is guided by the whistling spirits.”

“Yes,” Keeney pressed, “I remember you saying that she was your mentor, the one who first taught you to be a great healer.”

“That is so. She was a great healer of our people. When she was a child, her father, my grandfather, had a secret bag that contained his most sacred objects. He had become very ill and was concerned about what would happen to the bag after he died; it must be destroyed. The bag was then taken far into the land and hidden. Mynah was instructed to go out and let the spirit lead her to this bag. She fasted for many days and was gone for a long time. When she returned, she told a story of being led to a large termite hill, where she felt the spirits draw her. She reached inside the hill and retrieved the bag, which had been unmolested by the insects. Ever since then, she had become the keeper of my grandfather’s sacred medicine.”

“I notice that you said she was a great healer. Is she no longer alive?”

“Sadly, this must be so. She would be over 100 years. I have not seen her in 30, or maybe 40, years.”

“Are you certain she is no longer with us?” Keeney pressed him. “Maybe we should go look for her?”

For the very first time, Mutwa’s eyes lit up like a child. “You really think so? You think we should go find her, do you?”

Keeney looked intently in Mutwa’s eyes, magnified by the thick lenses. “Yes, Baba,” he said, “that is what we must do.” In fact, Keeney held out little hope that this old woman could possibly be alive at age 100, given all the disease and conflict that would have come her way over the years. Yet Keeney reasoned that it was not crucial that Aunt Mynah still be alive, but rather that Mutwa had a mission, a reason to go on living. In such spiritual journeys, it is the search that is important, not the goal.

“Do you have any idea what you are asking, my son?” Mutwa shook his head at the impossibility of such a pilgrimage. “Do you know the place of my ancestral home?”

“I do not,” Keeney admitted. “But that does not matter. We will go there.” He said this with such finality, and such intensity, that Credo Mutwa felt he had no choice but to agree.

What Mutwa had not explained at the time was that his ancestral village was exactly in the middle of the most violent and dangerous place in South Africa. They would have to travel down a road that was occupied by dozens of snipers who would ambush people on sight. To add to the mix, apartheid may have just been declared illegal, but that did not stop various groups from killing one another.

This was also an especially dangerous time for traditional healers in Africa. They were being hunted by police for fomenting revolution. Some radical fundamentalist missionary groups had gone so far as to encourage the use of fire-burning “necklaces” to kill these primitive witchdoctors, who were an affront to good Christians everywhere. There was gossip of a large bounty on Mutwa’s head for any assassin who could bring him in, dead or alive, but preferably dead.

For this reason, Keeney and Mutwa would have to travel with bodyguards. These were largely mercenaries who had worked for various regimes and now hired themselves out to protect important figures. Three bodyguards would be accompanying them on this trip through KwaZulu-Natal Province, all of them equipped with Uzis and automatic pistols strapped to their ankles.

“You guys got any rocket launchers, too?” Keeney kidded Wil, the guard in charge of their security. Whether it was because he didn’t understand the question, or he preferred to keep his armaments secret from a possible enemy, Wil just stared at Brad with an expression that chilled him. Brad had already heard from Mutwa that this man was a professional assassin, someone who had killed many people for his previous government employer. Keeney actually felt very grateful that Wil was now working for them.

They loaded up the convoy with their equipment and weapons. Credo was outfitted in his most impressive ceremonial Zulu gowns. Beads and necklaces weighin...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• About the Authors
• Preface
• Part I: Some Conceptual Foundations
• Part II: Shamanic Concepts Applied to Helping and Healing
• Epilogue
• Books by Bradford Keeney
• References